Coming home from a peaceful and tranquil weekend in the mountains on Monday morning required traveling over Berthoud Pass, a winding mountain road that takes you from Winter Park valley to I-70. Did I mention it's windy? Squirt began complaining about her tummy mid way through the pass, which was dis-concerning, so I jumped into the back seat in-between our two little people. A tight seat, but necessary when one of the littles needs distraction. Mud covered Enzo was taking up residence in the way back, which meant everything was coated in slimy black dirt. Needless to say, he had a gay old time romping around in the mountains before we headed for home. We couldn't strip him of that rare opportunity.
Dude had developed a new tick the night before, which resembled a respirator-type noise with an occasional snort mixed in. That was happening, quite regularly, in my left ear. Despite my feeble peek-a-boo and animal imitation efforts, whining and random bursts of tears continued occurring in my right ear. Enzo, excited that his Mom was joining his section of the vehicle, was pawing my shoulders with his mud caked paws. Tim misunderstood Squirt's sudden plea to "puke" with what he thought was a plea to "pee," to which he said she could do at the next exit. Too late. Squirt's whining came to an abrupt stop as she unleashed her 5 scrambled eggs, wheat bagel, and orange juice all over the backseat.
We pulled over on the side of I-70 in bumper to bumper traffic and provided quite a show for our fellow travelers as Tim stripped our egg covered daughter down to her skivvies and threw her in her brother's spaghetti covered pajama top. Enzo was attempting to get break free that entire period of time, spreading more mud, and Dude was ticking loudly and threatening to throw up because of the grossness of the situation to his right. I might have scared him with a threat of walking home if he added to the puke, but I was right there with him.
As we all settled back into our seats, some more covered in vomit than others, Tim attempted to merge back into traffic. After the successful merge Tim informed me that the button for the hazard lights was jammed. We were in permanent hazard mode. Eventually, after much banging on the dashboard, Tim threw the Pilot manual into the backseat with a request to find the fuse location to turn the stupid lights off. I completed my task amid constant respirator noises and a now perky Squirt and we pulled over again to pull the fuse. Success. Until we realized we now did not have operating turn signals. Fantastic. And super safe for mountain driving.
Squirt then cashed out, Dude began singing the Tornado song, in perfect high pitch, from his upcoming 2nd grade musical, and insisted on tickling me until I upped my happiness level. He was not successful - quite the opposite. We pulled into the driveway, silently emptied the car, drove our happy son to school, gave Squirt a shower and promptly drove the Pilot to the car wash for a full detail job. As we exited the vehicle for the inside cleaning, Squirt says, "Sorry man. You have to clean my puke." Indeed. Enough said.
No more mountain trips planned in the near future friends.
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